The beautiful 100-second video follows an excited young boy preparing for his military dad’s homecoming. The spot ends with father and son running into each other’s arms in a snow-covered winter wonderland and the line: "Let’s bring everyone closer this holiday."

This commercial, and many other ones like it that run throughout the holiday season, are deeply moving. Heartwarming feelings of gratitude might cause us to shed a tear (or several), and even share the story with family and friends. This is how we like to picture service members and families during the holidays — reunited at last!

However, there’s one group of people I know who might shed a tear watching this same spot for a different reason. For those with spouses deployed this holiday season, there won’t be a last-second homecoming, a happy reunion in the snow. Maybe you are one of them. Your service member is far away, dutifully doing a job that needs to be done.

And you’re here, maybe feeling like you’re muddling through the season alone.

I remember very clearly how I felt when my husband was deployed for the holidays. By mid-November I was walking around with a pit in my stomach. The time of year I’ve looked forward to all my life suddenly felt very foreign, and even a little uncomfortable. I remember desperately wishing for Christmas to be over, wishing I could close my eyes and fast-forward to February.

If you are one of the many military families around the nation spending the holidays without your service member, please know this: I see you.

I see you shouldering the responsibilities of your two-partner life as one person, feeling overwhelmed, feeling a little crazy, feeling like half of a whole.

I see the loneliness that quietly tracks you whether you’re in an empty room, sitting with loving friends, or wrangling tired children.

Why you'll remember this Christmas

I see you watching the Christmas television specials and scrolling your phone to see carefully curated photos, looking at images of what the holidays “should” be — joyful, beautiful, special.

I see you. I appreciate you. I stand with you, and I promise you: These days are special days in their own right.

For many reasons, you will remember this Christmas forever.

You’ll remember that time you barely made it to the post office before they closed on an early December evening, only to spend a small fortune shipping handmade cards, cookies, and gifts to a war zone. You’ll remember the time you untangled several hundred yards of twinkling lights and triumphantly decorated your front porch with freezing fingers and frustrated laughs. You’ll remember that time you never thought you’d be able to get a 12-foot tree to fit in your living room — let alone decorated and in one piece — with two children under age 3.

Discovering strength in holiday time apart

You’ll remember the laughs with a little too much wine while making cookies, festive music blasting through your home. You’ll remember the few fleeting moments spent on a video call with your spouse, sharing love and merriment, wishing you could reach out and pull him or her across oceans. You’ll remember this Christmas as one that you made special — for yourself, your family and your deployed service member.

You and your spouse will talk about it in later years, during Christmases that are so happy and ordinary they blend almost indistinguishably together in your mind. You’ll tell your grandchildren about the holidays you and your spouse spent apart. How deeply you missed each other. How you discovered reserves you never knew you had. How you pieced together new traditions from scratch. How navigating the strange terrain of being alone brought you new ideas, new strength, and new love for all the years that came afterward.

You’ll remember this time forever. There is beauty, wonder and significance in these chaotic days and months, so don’t hope for the holidays to be over. Don’t close your eyes and wish for February. For your own sake and for the sake of your family, have a very merry Christmas.

Lisa Bradley is the co-founder of R. Riveter, an American handbag company that provides jobs for military spouses.